Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALEJANDRA
Ishould’ve told Clara last night that I don’t even know if what I’m feeling is exclusively friendly.
But I didn’t. My brain had laid everything out perfectly, but my mouth had been uncooperative.
Then I’d started second-guessing myself.
Was this really the best time? How do I even begin when I can’t figure out what’s going on with me or when I’m leaving?
I scroll through my emails, the list of upcoming interviews glaring back at me—each one a reminder that I’m running out of time, fast, and I can’t keep avoiding this conversation with her.
“Morning,” Lala says as I walk into the kitchen, where she was talking with Clara, but I barely register the greeting.
My focus is entirely on Clara. She’s leaning against the kitchen island, her legs crossed at the ankle, one hip sticking out, and her arms—God, her arms, have they always been this defined?
—are folded over her chest. The slight arch in her back shows off the lean muscle along her waist. Her top clings lightly to her body, rising slightly with each breath, and it takes everything not to lick my lips.
My eyes trace over her form, and I can’t seem to look away. It’s subtle—I hope—a quick flick of my gaze down her frame, but it’s enough to make my stomach tighten and my fingers itch to touch her. To trace them over the hem of her shirt until I find bare skin.
I don’t know what’s going on with me this morning.
She’s always been there. I’ve always known she’s ridiculously attractive, but right now, I’m hyper-aware of it.
It’s like everything I’ve always known to be true—her charm, how effortlessly beautiful she is—suddenly feels amplified.
But it’s more than that. More . . . something.
I don’t even know what exactly, but it’s something I can no longer ignore.
I kiss the top of Lala’s head and then Clara’s cheek, but as she leans into it, it feels different .
. . warmer, and her hands around my waist are positively electric—the heat of her touch seeps through the fabric of my shirt, and I gasp.
Her touch has always been warm and comforting, but this is different.
It crackles through me like a spark, and I can’t catch my breath.
Clara turns slowly, her gaze dropping to my parted lips, lingering there before the corner of her mouth quirks up. Then she turns back toward Lala and finishes what she was saying, her hand still on my waist, her thumb rubbing slow circles against my skin.
What is happening? My best friend’s touch should not affect me like this—not when it’s one I’ve known my whole life. I try not to focus on it, but it’s proving harder than expected.
When Clara finally drops her hand, my heart drops with it.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” Clara cups my cheek as she hands me a mug of coffee with her other hand. My eyes flutter closed at the sensation of her fingers on my skin.
What could’ve possibly changed overnight to make me feel like this? Somehow, my body forgot how familiar her touch is, and now it wants more, like it’s all brand-new.
“Thank you.” I grab her hand and kiss her palm, an action I’ve done so many times, it’s automatic. The second my lips press against her skin, there’s this pull in my chest, this sudden urge to kiss more than her hand—an ache I’ve never felt toward Clara before.
I close my eyes, enjoying the warmth of her palm pressed against my lips. When I open them again, Clara is staring at me—her eyes darker than before, her chest rising and falling a little faster.
Lala clears her throat, and we both snap out of it, quickly pulling away from each other.
“How long have you guys been up?” I turn to the clock on the stove, trying to distract myself from the need in my bones.
“Not long, forty minutes maybe.” Lala sips her coffee, carefully eyeing Clara and me.
“I’m sorry I slept so late. You should have woken me up.” It’s already 10:30 a.m. I don’t usually wake up this late, but my mind was spinning all night. I don’t even know when I fell asleep.
Clara shakes her head. “I felt you tossing and turning until late at night. I wanted you to rest,” she says, her voice soft and tender.
My heart squeezes. “Thank you.”
“So, what do you two usually get up to on the weekends?” Lala asks sweetly.
“Well, usually, nothing. But today we have to go to Diana’s dance rehearsal around noon.”
Lala nods. “Perfect, I will go with you, then.”
After Lala makes us a delicious breakfast, Clara and I head back into our room and get ready. “Our room.” God, one night of questioning my feelings for her, and I’ve already moved myself in.
U-Haul lesbians have got nothing on me.
Getting ready is proving to be very difficult for Clara.
I know she’s regretting letting me color-code the entire closet.
After digging through an unreasonable amount of neatly arranged clothing and destroying the careful organizing I’d spent all afternoon on yesterday, Clara manages to find her favorite shirt tucked between two nearly identical shades of black sweaters.
She reaches for the hem of her pajama shirt, and right as she starts to lift it, I turn away.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen Clara change.
I’ve seen her completely naked more times than I can count—opportunities I’m now regretting taking for granted—but it feels different.
I feel different—shyer. I’ve never felt the need to look away or pretend not to notice her curves.
We’ve had so many conversations about how perfect I think her body is, but now, if I catch even a glimpse of her undressed, I’ll have to fake being nonchalant, and I’m not sure I can do that.
“I’m sorry I took forever,” she says, and I open my eyes as she pulls her shirt over her head, and even that small glimpse of her toned abdomen has my heart pounding. “Your organization method is way too complicated,” she adds.
I laugh nervously, doing my best not to look or sound as awkward as I feel. “Complicated? It’s literally a rainbow.”
Clara rolls her eyes. “Yes, but my brain doesn’t categorize clothes by color. I throw things where they fit, organized chaos.”
I gasp dramatically, like she’s said the most offensive thing imaginable. It’s instinctive, effortless. This—this feels normal. This feels like us. Easy, fun, playful. The way it’s always been. The way I know Clara and me to be.
Clara laughs. “Let’s go.”
I nod and head into my bedroom to grab my camera. I want to get some shots of the rehearsal for Diana’s wedding album.
By the time Clara, Lala, and I pull up to Diana’s house, the sun is high, the sky is a perfect stretch of blue, and the sea breeze carries the smell of ocean and pine.
Diana and Alex bought a house on Camano Island about six months ago.
They’d been living in San Francisco before that, so we didn’t get to see them much, which is why I love having them so close now.
Camano Island is a town over from Stanwood—where Clara and I live—but their place is at the end of the island, so it takes us about an hour to get there, but it’s always worth the drive.
Her house is the kind that belongs in a magazine—dark black siding with big windows that flood every room with light, and a back porch that practically spills out onto the beach.
When we arrive, everyone is there but Valeria.
Apparently, Brooke—her manipulative ex, who has the most punchable face I’ve ever seen—showed up at her vet clinic out of nowhere, flowers in hand, wanting to talk.
My chest tightens at the thought. I want to sweep Valeria up and trap her in a protective bubble, shield her from the chaos Brooke is bound to drag in, but I know she’d never let me.
She’s still so tangled up in Brooke, I don’t think she sees a way out. Not yet, at least.
Clara disappears into the house the second we get there, since we’re a bit late and she needed to check in with her dance partner five minutes ago.
“Let’s go find you a seat,” I say to Lala, walking past the group of people huddled around the dance instructor.
I find a seat for Lala, then start snapping photos of random things around Diana’s house. It’s part of my process to get a feel for the space, the lighting, and familiarize myself with the different settings I’ll need.
I’ve never photographed a wedding before, but when my sister called me crying because her photographer bailed, I couldn’t help but offer.
I know she could have found someone else; there are hundreds of talented photographers in Washington. But I really wanted to give my sister some peace of mind and make sure there was at least one thing she didn’t have to overthink or worry about.
Diana must have felt me thinking about her because when I turn, her brown eyes are locked on me.
Her long, dark hair trails behind her as she weaves through the crowd of people beelining it straight toward me.
Her floor-length green dress moves like liquid around her.
When she finally reaches me, she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a big, tight hug.
“Hey,” I say, hugging her back just as firmly.
I don’t get to see her nearly as much as I’d like—she and Alex are constantly traveling for work.
Diana’s a flight attendant, and Alex is a pilot.
They met on a flight they were working together, and the rest is history.
One of those rare, perfect workplace romance stories that actually happened in real life.
“Hey,” she says gently on an exhale.
I sense someone come up behind me, and somehow I know it’s Clara—I don’t even have to look. She wraps her arms tightly around both of us without a word. Her cologne reaches me, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
When the three of us finally let go, Diana dives straight into questioning.
“So, Clara, huh?” she says, peering over at Clara, who’s now standing beside Lala.
“Yeah,” I say, a soft smile spreading across my face.
“I’m glad it finally happened.”